


Fool

by elemsee



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: AU because Sean is alive and it's set in Shady Belle, Drunken Shenanigans, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-06 06:02:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20286586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elemsee/pseuds/elemsee
Summary: Arthur rubbed his eyes, simultaneously bemused at his young friend's luck yet exasperated at his stupidity. He wondered if Sean would even remember this in the morning.





	Fool

**Author's Note:**

> I literally just spent the last hour and a half on this so apologies for any typos or imperfections. I just needed to get it out of my system. I love Sean MacGuire more than I probably should.
> 
> As the tags state, this is very mildly AU because it's set in chapter 4, but Sean is alive. Let me live in these wild fantasies where my beautiful Irish cowboy husband doesn't die, please and thanks.

The act of joyous, raucous celebration came naturally to the van der Linde gang, particularly when alcohol was involved. This night in question was no different — a few of the men had acquired a substantial haul on a stagecoach robbery and given their recent run of _seriously_ bad luck, this minor success story was more than enough to encourage the opening of a few bottles. 

It didn't take long before the festivities had grown wild, empty bottles strewn in the grass and dirt, the sounds of Javier's guitar-playing wafting into the starry sky and through the trees as it chased the campfire smoke. 

Dutch had initially cocked an eyebrow as he watched from the second floor balcony, commenting dryly that they weren't out of the woods yet and _"A single somewhat reasonable take isn't enough to get us gone from here",_ to which Hosea had been quick to silence him. "Folk need hope, Dutch. They need to believe that we can survive this. Let them enjoy themselves tonight. Ever hear of a little thing called motivation?"

And so shockingly, with no adequate rebuttal in mind, Dutch van der Linde actually stayed quiet for a change. 

It was just past midnight when Arthur decided he was going to leave the rest of the gang to their own devices — it was an early night by his usual standards, but some recent travelling had taken it out of him and he was desperate for some rest. He nursed the final few drops of his bottle of whiskey as he sat on his cot, feet hanging off the edge as he idly scuffed them against the worn wooden planks of the floor. The sound of people singing was faintly audible from the window as he stared out of it. 

All at once his bedroom door swung open and Arthur's body jolted slightly in surprise, eyebrows furrowed as his tired gaze flicked to the intrusion.

"There he is! My brother, the great Arthur Morgan!" 

Nobody partied harder than Sean MacGuire — perk and curse of an Irish heritage. And there was the partygoer himself, greasy ginger locks dishevelled and wild, trousers muddied from the knee down and a bottle of beer clutched tightly in his hand as he leaned against the door frame of Arthur's room, staring down the elder man vacantly with an enthusiastic grin plastering his face. 

Arthur, unsurprisingly, was not amused. "What part of _I'm going to bed_ didn't make it through that thick skull of yours?" he grunted, taking one final swig of the whiskey bottle to polish it off before dropping it on the ground beside him. 

"Ah, don't be like that, Morgan! Ya love me!" Sean's accent was strong as ever as he talked, gesturing so wildly with his arms that Arthur was honestly surprised he hadn't lost his beer yet. "You saved me from them bounty hunters in Blackwater, and then when we got ambushed in Rhodes! Yer a diamond, the best of them all, didja know that? I love you, ya miserable old bastard!"

Then he was gone, stumbling out the doorway as quickly as he'd arrived. Arthur chuckled quietly to himself — as much as he refused to admit it, he _did_ love Sean, like an irritating little brother. 

It was only when he reached down to pull off one of his boots that Arthur's ears caught a not so distant sound, the obnoxiously loud rumble of an object thumping against wood again and again until finally, silence. Then, quietly: "Who put them feckin' stairs there, f'Christ's sake."

Upon further investigation of the sound, Arthur's eyes went wide as he stood at the top of the stairs and looked downwards. The object thumping against wood had in fact been Sean's body, barrelling down the staircase — and now there the Irishman lay, face first on the ground.

"Jesus, you alright, MacGuire?" 

Sean was still for longer than made Arthur feel comfortable, and briefly he considered the gross irony that the kid would survive a kidnapping and an ambush only to be taken out by a wooden staircase of all things. 

Until suddenly he heard, muffled against the wood: "Aye, m'grand."

Arthur rubbed his eyes, simultaneously bemused at his young friend's luck yet exasperated at his _stupidity_. He wondered if Sean would even remember this in the morning. 

And then a thought came to Arthur, one which played a small smirk upon his lips. _If he don't remember it, then I know a way I can remind him. _

Reaching into his satchel he yanked out his journal and a pencil, the smirk refusing to dissipate as he flicked through the pages to find a fresh one. Silence came over him as pencil scratched continuously against paper, Arthur's eyes darting quickly between Sean and the journal as he worked on his creation. 

The sound of laughter falling from Arthur's lips gave him away and Sean finally began to stir, slowly moving his head, his wild ginger locks falling down over his eyes as he glanced up at Arthur. "The hell ya laughin' at, English?" 

Arthur didn't bother to respond, so engrossed with a smile on his face that he barely registered the sound of a door opening beside him and the clack of boots against the floor. The warmth of a presence beside him finally made him cease his ministrations upon the page, and he turned to see Dutch standing there, wearing a confused look upon his face.

"Arthur, what are y — Sean? Are you alright, son?" 

Sean was finally moving now, groaning as he began to raise up from the floor, almost tripping over _again_ on the bottom step in his drunken stupor. "Aye Dutch, takes more than a few stairs to take down the great Dead Eye MacGuire!" Then with a pathetic attempt at a salute in Dutch's direction he was gone, limping out the door. 

Dutch and Arthur shared a quick knowing glance, upon which Dutch finally took the opportunity to peer over Arthur's shoulder — the sudden, deep laughter that emitted from him sent Arthur chuckling along with him. A few more quick flicks of the pencil across the page and he was finished, popping the journal back into his satchel as the sound of John's voice rang out across the hall. "Will y'all keep it down out there, we're trying to sleep in here!"

Morning soon came, another stifling hot day in Lemoyne, and as Arthur rose from sleep to stumble downstairs for breakfast he thought about his late night creation, pulling out his journal so he could jog his memory. And there it was, just as hilarious as he'd remembered: his sketch of Sean, laid out face first on the wooden floor.

He dug into his satchel one more time as his fresh laughter finally ceased, his fingers gripping the pencil tightly as he added one last thing to make the drawing perfect.

A single word, underlined. 

F O O L. 


End file.
